


Silent Partner

by nobodyscougar



Category: American Idol RPF, Music RPF
Genre: Eventual Explicit sexual content, F/M, mention of other American Idol contestants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:44:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7526101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodyscougar/pseuds/nobodyscougar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deanna agrees to wait to resume her relationship with Dalton until he finishes his competition on American Idol.  As the weeks tick by, she is merely another home viewer, watching her boyfriend gaining in votes and recognition.  Although they keep in regular contact, there is no public acknowledgement of their relationship, as agreed.  Now that the competition has ended, Deanna wonders if Dalton will be back in her arms or if she lost him the night she agreed to be a silent partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Partner

**Author's Note:**

> This story will have a total of 2 or 3 chapters and explicit sexual content will begin in chapter 2 or 3.

SILENT PARTNER

 

Chapter One

 

Votes. It was all about getting the votes, he’d explained before he left three months ago.

“They want me to cater to the young girls,” he said, throwing his head back, blonde tresses splaying against my couch cushion. 

He sat back up. “Apparently they’re the demographic doing the voting. Anyone who knows anything says the same thing-- and this is from inside and outside the Idol camp.” He used his left hand to designate inside and right for outside. 

“I need to let them have their fantasies. If they think I’m single, they’re more likely to dream of having a relationship with me and more likely to stay interested and vote. I’m being advised not to mention that I have a girl while I'm on the show.”

He finally latched onto my eyes with his, from way over on the far side of the couch where neither of us ever sat. He held my gaze waiting for a response. His bouncy right leg and moist eyes betrayed his anxiety.

I realized my arms were tightly crossed against my chest. His words were stabbing me, but I easily identified the tender feelings underneath them. I could tell he had worried and rehearsed his explanation to me. He had never defined our relationship until tonight. Had he called me his “girl” under any other circumstances, I’d have been swooning.

Fighting the rock in the pit of my stomach, I feigned amusement and smirked. 

“Dalton, if you have to make the supreme sacrifice of letting a bunch of sexy young ladies fall all over you in the interest of furthering your career, you’ll just have to suffer through it.”

He leapt across the couch and crushed me into his arms. His soft lips murmured against my neck. “I swear I’ll make it up to you.” The sweet, clean smell of him, his strong hands kneading up and down my back, he pressed his chest into mine without the usual restraint. It was the sweet home I’d been waiting to sink into, and now it was me who was tensing up. 1x1 is 1, 1x2 is 2, I thought, my technique to distract me from crying.

Dalton pecked my lips three times quickly. 

“And keep in mind, we’re talking about the best case scenario,” he said. “ I could easily get sent home the first or second week, before it even goes to America to vote.”

“I doubt that,” I said.

Even back then, I knew that the opposing boy band charm and punk-ass sass would hook them in. And that given time, his raw, unique talent would poke through the shiny surface, revealing an unstoppable competitor. 

 

So now I paced around my apartment, remembering that night and looking at the couch that had sat so empty lately. I looked at the clock and calculated that Dalton had already been back in Dallas for two hours and would be here in less than one. I hiked my short skirt up a little, then decided to tug it back down. 

Numbers calmed me down for some reason. The competition had ended one day ago. It had ended for Dalton two days ago. He had been gone for about three months. I realized for the first time that we had been apart for almost as long as we’d been together, only four short months. What was going to happen tonight? Were we really still a couple, or had I lost him that night when I agreed to be a silent partner?

 

School had been back in session for about two weeks the day I met Dalton. That sickening, party’s over feeling still hit me every late August and stuck with me all through September. It felt no different as a special ed teacher than it had as a powerless student.

The auditorium stood empty that afternoon save for myself, my aide, and my 10 kids who were sitting, rocking, or crawling as close to front row center as we could keep them. We’ve always brought our kids in before the rest of the school for assemblies. It gives us a chance to put them up front, get them settled in and avoid the problematic distractions of entering with the rest of the school. 

The School of Rock had been coming to the school every September for a number of years, trying to drum up business for their after school music programs. This was only my second year teaching. The hippie throwback type guy who had come last year put on a cute little demonstration that most of the students enjoyed. My kids loved it. But as so often happens, their enthusiasm translated into uncontrollable excitement that seemed to annoy and distract others. 

I stood in front of the giant window near the stage stretching my legs a bit. The sun illuminated crisscrossing streaks of dusty summer haze all through the room. I strained to crank the window open, suspecting the dust was responsible for the multitudes of sneezes coming from Travis. He flapped his arms, telling Ellen, my aide, that more than three sneezes in a row could turn him into a garden gnome. He had seen it on a TV show.

“Travis,” I called. “Look at me and let’s take a big deep breath together... You were sneezing because the room is dusty, but now I’ve opened the window and most of the dust has flown outside.”

He smiled at me.

I jumped as the heavy door near the opposite end of the stage clanked open. A man whose upper body was obliterated by cases and contraptions scurried in and leapt up the stage steps. He lowered each item to the floor with a thud. The principal appeared on stage, shook his hand, pointed a few things out, and disappeared. 

This was not the same guy who had come last year from the School of Rock.

He was a young, punk-haired blond. Tight black skinny jeans ripped at the knees. A black graphic tee I was sure would make no more sense to me close up. He squatted down to remove a guitar from a case. Chains hung from his neck and pocket, one around his belt. Jeans worn low, but not too low.

From a peripheral recess in my mind, I heard Ellen call me for the second or third time.

“Miss Contrado.”

I motioned to her to wait and found my footsteps drawn towards the stage stairs.

He flipped on some footlights and moved around the stage, popping open cases, unwinding cables, and plugging in wires. I climbed the short flight, watching his compact, well-proportioned frame work with confidence. 

When I reached him, he was hunched down again, lifting a keyboard off of the floor. His underwear, exposed by his low slung jeans and hitched up shirt, were black.

“Hey,” I said. ‘ Excuse me sir’ didn't seem appropriate.

He stood up and faced me. “Hi,” he said.

I’m sure I’d seen millions, probably billions of smiles up until that day. But this one sped up my heartbeat and paralyzed the rest of me--gorgeous white teeth and full pink lips. And his smile created sweet dimples deep enough to live in. Something about that smile and the look in his sea green eyes told me I had his full attention.

“Can I help you?” he said.

I realized my mouth was hanging open. “Sorry,” I said. “I just wanted to um… I’m one of the special ed teachers. That’s my class in the front row. I just wanted to let you know that we try to keep them focused during these things, but some of them have attention and impulse control issues, and they sometimes get a little boisterous.”

I was staring at the floor. What was my point?

“Anyway,” I continued. “They don’t mean to be disrespectful. In fact, several of them are extra wound up today because they really love music.”

“That’s cool,” he said.

I found the courage to glance at his face again. He was still smiling.

“Some of the best musicians I know are boisterous and have no impulse control at all,” he said, turning his body back to his equipment, but keeping his eyes on me. “Thanks for letting me know.”

I nodded and smiled, feeling heat rush through my cheeks. The clamour of the other couple hundred students filling the auditorium began. I rushed to my seat, mouthing ‘sorry’ to Ellen a few seats away.

This young man, who was a vocal coach at The School of Rock, captivated the whole school. He played piano, guitar, and who knows what else. He sang beautifully. He made the kids, and the teachers, laugh. He sprinkled the self-assuredness he presented on stage with bits of good natured self-deprecation. 

Of the six volunteers he brought onstage to participate in the demo, three were from my class. He left each kid who came on stage with a lesson, some laughter and a sense of accomplishment. He had quite a knack with children to have handled my students so well. Even my kids who remained in the audience were enthralled with the show and happy to see their friends on stage.

“That guy’s awesome,” I heard Jonathan say. “I’m gonna get him for a music teacher.”

I watched the young man repacking the same components and rewinding the same cables.

I had to talk to him again. I had to see that smile again.

I approached him from behind once more. “Hi again.”

He turned around. “Hi.”

“I just wanted to thank you for including my class the way you did. They don’t always get to be part of everything around here the way they’d like to. It meant more to them than you probably know.”

“I’m glad,” he said, somehow smiling even more brightly. “I wanted to meet some of your students. I’m Dalton, by the way.” He put his hand out.

“Deanna.” I didn’t want to let go of his soft, warm hand.

“Deanna, are you gonna make me haul all of this equipment back to the car by myself?” he asked.

“I… you want me to help you?” I looked down from the stage to see that my class had cleared out. If Ellen had managed to get the kids out the door with no problem, getting them on the bus home would be easy.

“Here,’’ he said, placing a strap connected to a small case on my shoulder.

“I can take more,” I said.

“Nope, we’re good.” He hoisted the last item onto his shoulder. “Follow me.”

Outside, the bright sun highlighted the contrast between his pale hair and tanned neck and arms. I watched his broad back strain against his t-shirt, struggling to balance all the weight.

He began slinging items into the trunk of a dark SUV. I held my case, which weighed about two pounds, out to him. 

“Glad I could provide so much help,” I said.

He turned to face me and laughed. He leaned against the car, crossed his arms and gave me an overt once over.

I looked at the ground. “I’d better get back.”

“Wait, Deanna,” he said less confidently while reaching in his pocket. “I know we just met, but I don’t think I could forgive myself if I didn’t ask for your number.” He held his phone, finger poised to type.

I rattled off a number I hoped was correct.

We said goodbye and I headed back into the school, struggling to process what had just happened.

 

That was a Monday. The next few days really sucked. My self-talk about focussing on my work, staying in the moment and letting things unfold the way they were meant to did no good. I constantly checked my phone for a text or voicemail from a number I didn’t recognize.

On Wednesday, I was tricked for the second time into retrieving a voicemail ad for insurance from an appealing-looking phone number. I wanted to chuck my phone across the classroom and watch it explode against the whiteboard. I wanted to see its useless metallic guts splinter and fall to the floor. Damn iPhone probably wouldn't have destructed anyway. Plus it seemed like a poor anger management example to set for my students, who were actually completing their assignments that day with impressive focus. Any extraneous chatter around the classroom those days, however, continued to focus on Dalton and the show he had put on.

On Thursday morning, I ran my internal debates by my friend and co-worker as we treadmilled side by side at the gym.

“I know you were pretty far back, but could you see how adorable he was? Wasn't he like, so funny and so…sexy the way he commanded the stage? The way he dealt with the kids was so impressive…”

“You're going super slow,” Amber said, pointing to the display on my machine.

I groaned and sped up.

“Yes,” Amber said. “He was one cute, sexy little Peter Pan-like manchild. And you flew right up on stage, looking to be his Tinkerbell.” She laughed.

I couldn't help laughing. “Shut the fuck up...That's the other thing-- how old is he? What if he does call me and he's jailbait? I don't wanna ask. What if I go on a date with him and I end up doing jailhouse interviews for Dateline?”

I continued. “I'm jumping the gun like an idiot. Just because he asked for my number, doesn't mean he's going to get in touch with me. Everyone plugs everyone else's number into their phone these days. Maybe he wants to add me to his Merry Christmas group text.”

Amber shut off her machine and ran a towel through her short auburn hair. “Deanna,” she said. “You said you guys didn't speak more than a few sentences to each other. Why would he bother to have you carry some light dumbass equipment out to his car? He thought you were hot. Go to the School of Rock, give the kid your address, throw him down on your couch, rip his clothes off, straddle him and fuck the hell out of him.”

“I don't want this to be just a sex thing,” I said. And I would snap my phone in half with my bare hands before I would go looking for him. He either contacted me or that was it.

That night, after a cursory, boring social media check, I crawled into bed early, attempting to focus on some forensic TV show about a panty stealing mass murderer. I startled awake to the tick of a text message. I looked at the clock. 9:03. Hmmm. I looked at my phone. 

“Hi Deanna. It's Dalton. Remember me?”

I leapt up and paced around for 20 minutes before deciding what to reply. 

“Of course I do. How r u?”

“Good. Been busy with work and my band. U?”

“You're in a band? Cool. I'm good. My class won't stop talking about the awesome guy from school of rock.”

“Ha ha. U r kidding.”

“Nope. U r very popular at our school.”

“So if I asked to take your class out to dinner, they'd say yes?”

“I'm sure they would."

“What would you say if I asked you?”

“With the class?”

“No just u and me lol. Trying to be clever here and failing miserably.”

God he was so adorable, I swore I could feel my heart swell.

“No I was just being dense. That was cute. I would say yes.”

After a few more heart-wrenchingly sweet texts, we agreed to go out for Mexican food on Saturday night.

 

Amber and my friend, Tiffany had to duck more than once as I chucked apparel around my bedroom that Saturday afternoon. 

“I'll never find anything to wear,” I said, looking at the discarded skirts and tops littering the bed and the floor.

“If you want my advice," Amber said, "wear whatever looks the sexiest without looking like a two cent ho.”

“And who would know better than the two cent ho?” Tiffany asked.

Amber bowed.

 

The buzzer sounded right at 7, sealing the decision that my hair would remain wavy and down around my shoulders rather than straightened or half pulled back. 

I straightened my bunched up mini, pulled the v cut neckline up a bit, pushed my hair behind my shoulders, no in front, and pushed the button to allow him in the building. 

He knocked on the door. I took a deep breath and opened it.


End file.
